Page 122 of Under the Lies

And it awakens pieces that have wilted within me.

His touch is sin. His kiss poison. And I’m too busy drowning in him to care about a cure.

Breaking the kiss, but not going far, Noah’s thumb caresses my pulse. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this in fucking Harlots.”

We’re still close enough so my lips brush his as I say, “I’m not making you do anything. I just wanted to dance.”

“By dance, you mean grinding your ass on some other guy’s dick to get my attention.”

“Let’s get something clear, Noah.” I push against his chest, wanting out of his grip. He doesn’t twitch. “I didn’t do anything to get your attention. Didn’t even know you were here! So, go deflate that big ego of yours and take a step back. Not everything is about you.”

He tilts his head.

“Maybe,” I continue, unable to not tempt the tiger. “I wanted to dance with him. For his hands to be on me instead of yours. Maybe he makes me feel things that you don’t.”

My words are bitter.

A taste Noah doesn’t care for.

“You wanted to dance with him. You wanted him to touch this.” He runs his hands down my body.

I step out of his grip and his eyes flash. “Wanted him to touch my body?” I correct. “Yeah.”

Never mind the fact that I wanted the touch to be yours.

“I don’t share.” Slowly, he curls his fists.

“There’s nothing to share when I’m not yours, Noah!”

The air turns to ice as Noah’s eyes flash and his jaw ticks when he hears my words. It was the wrong thing to say, I knew that the moment I said them but I couldn’t stop myself. A kernel of me wanted it. Wanted to say the words and inflict some kind of reaction.

To prove me a liar.

He’s not a man of words, they’re his weapon and he only knows how to inflict pain with them.

He’s a man of touch, his hands speaking a language that’s foreign to his tongue.

And my words…they struck a chord.

“Wrong thing to say,” he growls, grabbing my arms and hauling me to his chest. “You think I do this for anyone? Let someone come into my home and leave their clothes, books, fucking strands of hair everywhere and making a mess in the order I’ve created.”

My breathing turns labored and not because of all the dancing I’ve done.

“I didn’t need you to get Harlow back,” he continues. “I didn’t need all the chaos you created when you came back into my life. But have I complained once about helping you? No. Why? Because I wanted you. I want you.”

His admission shocks me, robs me of speech.

Staring at him, my eyes frantically look for the lie. His tell. But he’s steady as ever. Of course, he’s calm in the wake of his words. Why not? He’s melting the ice in me.

And he’s not done.

“You’re mine because you fucking own me, Sayer Brooks. And I’m pissed as hell that you’re making me say this in fucking Harlots.”

I blink, suddenly remembering where we are. Not alone, but in a club. Standing still while madness moves around us.

And it’s too much.

It doesn’t feel real.

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